Archive of Our Own

Clancy had envisioned this going many ways. 

He’d envisioned winning a lot. Driving the antlers into Nico’s chest, laughing in his face. He wasn’t sure which would be more satisfying— the sound of the bones piercing Nico’s chest, the sound of his heartbeat slowing, the sound of his breaths finally fading out, or the look on Torchbearer’s face afterward– relieved and bright. 

He’d envisioned chickening out even more. His hand hovering on the door to the tower, shaking in a way he’d deny later. Turning around and storming off to find Torch, burying his face in his shoulder and admitting that he can’t do it, he’s too pathetic to do it alone. Selfishly begging him to come with so he didn’t have to face it by himself, knowing he’d say yes. He always did.

He’d had a lot of thoughts about it, ones that he’d tried to combat. The Banditos had planned for every scenario. 

Clancy dying had, for whatever reason, not been one of them.

It really should’ve been, he thinks bitterly, the antlers trembling in his hands, slipping from his fingers. Nico’s own are wrapped around his throat and though he’s trying, he can’t buck him off.

Weak, he thinks– or maybe Nico thinks it for him. Either way, he’s right– Torchbearer had sworn up and down that Clancy would be able to handle himself, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t handling it at all, right now. Hell, he was half a mind away from dropping to his knees and letting Nico have his way with him, whatever that may be. The thought made him sick– he remembers the sting of the knife, the pain of the whip, the way his hands cramped from writing too much that didn’t matter and not enough that ever did.

You’re pathetic.

He remembers his chest clenching, gagging as hands found his body. He’d squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to scream. Pretended their hands were knives, and screamed like it hurt, like he didn’t feel their touch like a brand cutting into his skin. He didn’t fight it.

Give up.

His knees wobble beneath him, and he sags, slumping forward. His forehead almost touches Nico’s shoulder and he jerks back, gasping as Nico’s hands loosen a little. 

“Clancy!”

It’s the sound of his name that brings him back to his senses, though not by much. It’s loud, ringing out over the sounds of the fighting, over Nico’s voice pulsating in his head. He tries to move, lets out a grunt of effort as he weakly shoves Nico off him, but it doesn’t work– the other man tightens his grip and the world flickers red.

“I’m not you,” he grits out, and Nico laughs, the bastard.

“You will be.” He sneers. His grip tightens. “You’ll be better, even.”

“I’m NOT!” He shoves again, harder this time, sending Nico stumbling a few steps back. His hand finds his throat, rubbing gently as he coughs, spitting at Nico’s feet. 

The other man doesn’t even blink. “Banditos,” he sneers. “So few. So proud. So emotional.”

Emotional. It’s so absurd he almost laughs, because when has he ever been emotional? Not when he’d been imprisoned, not when he’d been forced to perform, not in any of that— and if he was, he didn’t remember it well enough for it to count.

He blinks, because Nico is still staring at him, still grinning, not looking the least bit worried, even as he half bends down to pick up the antlers. It has him stopping in his tracks. He pulls his hand back from his throat— to do what, he’s not sure. Flip him the bird, or punch him in his smug little face— and freezes.

His hand is black. 

He recognizes the sign of the smear starting, though he can’t remember ever having seen it before. Torch had warned him that it might happen– told him what had happened before, though he hadn’t said much. Torchbearer didn’t like talking about previous cycles, which was perfectly fine with him. He didn’t like hearing about previous iterations of him, all the dead bodies labeled “Clancy”, all of whom had failed. All of whom had added to the weight that caused Torch’s shoulders to slump, darkening his eyes.

And it was happening again. Fuck, it was happening again.

No, this can’t be happening. Couldn’t Nico just kill him? Why did he have to do this? He brings his other hand to his mouth and it’s there too. His fingers are stained, like he’d eaten charcoal. His mouth is dry with the taste of it.

Nico grins. Grins, the bastard. “Hello, Clancy.”

He chokes on the sob that wants to leave his lips. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He tries, but it feels like he’s drowning as he scrubs at his face, choking on the smear that’s filling his lungs. He can still hear Torchbearer crying out his name— closer now, echoed by the cries of the others. 

Nico steps forward. “Entertain me, a second, won’t you, Clancy? I have faith.” 

He blinks once, twice— tries to clear the blurriness from his vision, tries to swallow back the vomit building in his throat. He’s shaking, violently so, and his bruised throat, black and blue aches every time he tries to get a breath in, but he’s upright at least. That’s something.

Nico growls, an animalistic noise. “Just give up already! There’s nothing you can do.” His lips curled back in a sneer. A smile. He couldn’t tell. “You’re weak.”

He wanted to fight back, but fuck if Nico wasn’t right. His hands were shaking, and his throat was too dry for him to even say anything back. The antlers were on the ground, a few feet away, and he couldn’t get to them. There was nothing he could do.

A memory floats to the surface, and he freezes.

Torch had been the one to show him the symbol. He’d drawn it out, too scared to make it himself.

“You’re a good artist.”

“Not the point, Clance,” he’d grumbled, but he hadn’t been able to hide his smile.

“So what does it do?”

“We don’t really know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? It has something to do with psychokinesis, right?”

“I-..yeah, okay, fine. We know that much. But nobody’s ever seen it.”

He hummed. “We could find out…” he trailed off, slowly raising his hands.

“Clancy!” Torch grabbed his hands, tugging them apart, and Clancy broke out laughing, even as Torch glared at him. “You’re not funny.”

“Ah, c’mon. I wasn’t gonna do it.”

“You were too close,” he snapped, and Clancy’s expression softened. 

“Torch, I wasn’t actually gonna—“

“I know,” he cut in, “I know, I just—“ he broke off with a huff and sighed. “We just don’t know what it does. But it’s dangerous, Clance. Keons was the last person to know anyone who used it, and it…didn’t go well.”

Ah. “What happened to them?”

“He didn’t really say,” he finally admitted. “Just said that he never saw them again.”

Torch’s gaze flickered back up to him, eyes tight, guarded. Scared, Clancy knew, even if he’d never admit it.

“Why are you telling me about it, then?”

Torch swallowed, sighed. “Just in case you need to protect yourself.”

“I don’t want to use it.”

“Clance—“

“No.” His voice came out sharper than he’d meant to. “I’m not going to.”

Torch sighed, again, and usually he’d feel bad about annoying him, but he didn’t. “I didn’t say it to scare you,” Torch whispered.  

“I’m not going to use it unless I have to,” he said, firmly. “I promise.”

Torch’s eyes linger on his face, but then his shoulders sag, and he exhales, soft and slow.

He knows, then, what he has to do. He doesn’t want to. It’s just another fucking promise to break. He could let Nico kill him— hell, Nico might kill him anyway. His heart pounds harder, and he doesn’t even know if this will work—

He has to try. For his sake.

I’m sorry, Torch, he thinks. Nico grins, goading. He lifts his hands, still trembling, and looks Nico dead in his soulless eyes.


“If I was weak,” he breathes, voice a hoarse rasp, “could I do this?”


His hands shake as he lifts his hands higher, and he prays that something cool happens, because he’d really look stupid if he’d dropped a cheesy line and it didn’t do anything. Maybe Torch was fucking with him. He crosses his fingers, completes the symbol—

It feels like his body rips apart at the seams. The flame that rips across his skin eats at every coherent thought. His vision goes white, then red, then black. Someone screams— maybe it’s him, maybe it’s Nico. There’s a sickening crack noise, and Clancy isn’t sure if it’s him. It’s his bones— his bones are breaking in his skin, his skull is fracturing, and the scream that bounds through the walls is definitely his this time. His throat is raw and aching, stinging from the bruises as he cries.

The blurriness fades, and he looks around, and yelps, and is then suddenly very glad nobody’s around. 

Nico’s slumped back against the wall. His eyes are shut, his lips half open in an aborted scream, a thin trail of blood dripping down his face. Clancy sucks in a breath, holds it—

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five. He keeps counting until he’s positive Nico’s dead, and he chokes on the disbelieving gasp that leaves him. 

He’d done it. He’d actually done it! Nico was dead, the cycle was broken, and he—

He’s swaying. Oh, he’s swaying, and he staggers towards the wall, clutching at the stone. He’s dying— he has to be. He can feel his heart slowing down, his breaths becoming heavier, and he half laughs, because of all the ways he’d thought about killing himself, this had not been one of them. 

A jagged piece of stone digging into his skin, like he could cut the remnants of their touch away with a sharp enough blade. Blood dripping down his arm, sliding down his fingers in a cold cell. Being bandaged, only to write more. Seeing Torchbearer that night and not saying more than two words— just breaking down crying, begging for forgiveness. Waking up cold and very much alive.

He redecorated his entire cell after that, with what he could. Hung papers– sketches, letters, lyrics– on the wall. Once he’d come back, Torch had admitted to reading them. He’d cried. Clancy hadn’t felt that guilty ever in his life.

He’d thought about dying a lot– more than he should, for any healthy person. And now that it’s happening, he doesn’t want it. He’s scared. 

He’s scared. Of dying. The whole thing is so absurd he laughs all over again, sobbing, choking noises that ring off the walls. He’s laughing still as he sways again, and this time his knees give. Blood pounds in his ears and the floor comes up to meet his head hard enough his ears start ringing. He hears Torchbearer grunt painfully— from where, he’s not sure— and something twists in his chest. His heart, maybe. If he still has one.

You fool, Nico laughs, but he can’t tell if it’s real or not. You’ll make an incredible bishop.

“No,” he whispers, whines, really, his voice a quiet keen in the dead silence. He pushes himself up on shaky arms– arms that are still black, still covered in charcoal, or dust, or whatever the hell this shit was made of– only to fall. His heart pounds— not fast, but slow, rhythmic thump, thump, thumps that send pain shooting through him each time it beats— and everything is blurry.

His second to last thought before the dark takes him over completely is that maybe the dark would take his heart from him too, if he asked. Spare him the pain.

His last thought is an apology, screamed out at the top of his lungs, that he’d failed again.

|-/

He wakes up outside his body.

For a second, he’s certain he’s dead. His hand fades through as he tries to use the wall to push him up, and breathing isn’t doing anything to slow the hammering of his heart. It’s like he’s a ghost— or at least, what he’d always imagined being a ghost would be. The antlers lay discarded in the corner of the tower. He’s standing over them, but he doesn’t know where his body is. All he sees is a robed figure facing the wall. Not talking, not breathing, just…staring. He has half a mind to realize that this can’t be real. He’s dead, seized, something.

The other half his mind realizes, too slow, that he’s the one in the robe, and he knows with a sudden, striking certainty: he failed. 

Oh, god, Nico was right all along. He failed. 

Tears sting his eyes as he watches himself stand there– not him, he thinks, not him, but his body, standing there like a corpse– and he buries his face in his hands. He can’t see his face through the hood, but he prays he’s not smiling back.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, face in his hands, his body a sad sack of nothing staring dead eyed at the wall. He can’t move, can’t breathe— all that leaves him are soft, shuddering exhales that he bites back, because they would’ve turned to sobs had he let them free and he didn’t even have the energy for that.

“Clancy?”

Fuck, he knows that voice. Even now, with the world in a haze and his body a few feet away from him, he recognizes that voice. He’d know it anywhere– has known it anywhere– and the dread that fills him at it getting closer nearly takes him down entirely. His body doesn’t turn, and for a second he’s certain that he’s dead. He would’ve turned, he’d always turn around for Torch. Please, for the love of everything, turn around.

“Clancy, are you alri—“

The voice cuts off. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Torchbearer’s voice broke, but he does, and it didn’t. It couldn’t have. Torch was stronger than Clancy would ever be, and he knew that.

He peeks through his fingers and watches himself turn, slower than he wants to. “FASTER”, he yells, but nobody responds to the noise, and he can’t control his body; it’s like he’s moving through sludge. No one else moves, and it makes him wonder if maybe he’s making things up. Maybe the Banditos had left— or worse (better?), maybe they’d won. Maybe he was on their list of the dead, maybe they were gone, maybe they’d gotten out. Yeah, that was it— he’d been split from his body and now he was hearing things. He’d finally lost it. They’d left, they had to have left.

He’s proven wrong, again, when he looks up. 

All around, there are Banditos. They surround the entrance, looking more than a little disheveled— he hopes that’s not his fault, but he can hardly bring the thought to the surface, because Torchbearer is standing there, brow furrowed, eyes crinkled. His lips stayed parted after Clancy’s name left them, a soft little ‘o’ echoing in the dark room. Clancy could hear him breathing as well as if he was pressed up against his side, as well as if he were curled into his body, head on his shoulder after a nightmare.

No. He steps back at the same time his body steps forward. Black smeared hands pull the hood down, and he’s forced to confirm that yeah, it’s definitely him, definitely a carbon copy of Clancy standing there with his shaved head and black ink up to his bottom lip, but it’s not Clancy. The sight of the ink makes him want to throw up, like it’s in his mouth, like maybe he can get rid of it, he wants to get it out.

He can’t convey that, can’t even breathe, or think about anything but the look on Torchbearer’s face. He’s never seen him look like that, like Clancy had reached in and pulled his heart out with his bare hands, stomped on it as hard as he could.

“No,” Torchbearer breathes. “Clancy, no.” His voice is shaking and Clancy, not for the first time, wants to die. He’d failed. He wasn’t strong enough, and he’d failed, and now Torch was here staring at the Not Clancy– not him, not him, not him– like that and he wanted to scream.

“Clancy,” he breathes, “you can’t. You have to fight it. This isn’t you.”

Nico huffs in the back of his mind– “He’s wrong about you, Nova”– and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He wants to throttle him all over again, to shove the antlers into his throat and watch the blood stain his robe, watch as he dies. He wants to step forward, to wrap Torchbearer in his arms and hold on, to cry onto his shoulder and apologize, beg for forgiveness. Anything to wipe that look, a mix of concerned and shocked and heartbroken, off his face.

The desire fades as quickly as it’d come before and he stays rooted to the ground, and he can’t do anything about it— he tries, screams, steps forward, but his body— Nova, because it’s not him— doesn’t move. He wants to force it; he can’t. His limbs are lead and he doesn’t even try.

The robe trembles in “Nova’s” hands, but Nico’s voice echoes in his head, loud and clear— “Steady, Nova”— and he watches as the trembling stops. Nova steps forward and holds the bundle of fabric out, folded and neat.

He wants to vomit. He wants to die. He’s not strong enough to fight the cycle on his own. He knows that. But bringing them into it too?

One by one, the Banditos step forward. One reaches out for the robe, and Clancy screams, and Torchbearer’s breath catches so hard  it echoes off the walls. 

The Bandito woman takes the robe from Nova’s hands and fastens it around her neck. Nova turns to the next one, whose arms are already out, ready for it. Torchbearer stares at her, eyes wide, lips still open, heart still breaking in his eyes. 

Clancy squeezes his eyes shut as Nova keeps passing out the robes. He can’t breathe, he can’t think— he’s ruining everything. Torchbearer is standing there losing his team, his fucking friends, and it’s all his— Clancy’s, Nova’s, Nico’s— fault. 

“No,” Torch whispers, and Clancy’s eyes shoot open. His heart drops into his gut, twisting in the stomach acid as he watches Nova step forward, to Torch, holding out a robe in his darkened hands.

You could join me, he thinks, like the other would hear it. The thought isn’t Clancy’s— he knows Torch would never, and Clancy doesn’t want him to– but the terrified animal in his chest rears its head and howls that he can’t leave. Even if he has to bite to keep him. 

Nova steps forward again, extending the bundle of fabric. The tips of his knuckles touch Torchbearer’s chest, and Clancy stays still, swallowing back the noise that wants to leave his lips. 

We could be together, Nova thinks, We could break the cycle from the inside. 

The thoughts feel foreign even as Clancy hears them, ridiculous even to his own mind. There is no breaking the cycle. There was never a chance; it was always this, always meant to be. Clancy was sure of that, as sure as he was that there was blood in his veins, a heart thumping painfully in his chest. 

But now, watching Torch stare at Nova, horrified, he wasn’t sure. He’d never been sure of anything in his life, but he’s sure that he does not want this. He wanted to fight it off, scream, scrub the smear off his arms. Torch doesn’t even spare a glance down at the robe— his eyes, soft and sunken, are locked on Nova and he wishes they weren’t. He wishes he’d look away, look at him— it’d be easier. But of course, he doesn’t. 

Please, some selfish part of him pleads, just take the deal. I promised you I’d stay with you. Don’t make me leave you. Don’t make me break that.

Torch blinks. Swallows. Shakes his head minutely, because even now, when he’s been rendered speechless (part of Clancy is mad he can’t even revel in how rare it is), he’s too good to leave without giving him an answer. 

“I’d give you anything,” he’d said once. Clancy had asked if he could steal a moment of his time. It felt like too big of a response, then. It doesn’t now— hell, now he wants more. He wants him to scream, cry, hit him, something. Anything but staring at him with that stupid, heartbroken expression. He’s not even angry. That’s the worst thing. He’s not even mad that Clancy failed— it looks like it’s destroying him from the inside out, and that’s somehow worse.

Give me this, Clancy pleads, wordless. Don’t make me lose you. Even if it’s like this. 

His eyes sting, and Nico’s damned ghost is in the back of his head holding the reins. He thinks that’s the only thing stopping him from actually moving as Torchbearer turns away. Every instinct in him is screaming to go to him, stop him, but he can’t. Nico’s grip on the reins won’t budge.
Everything is blurry around the edges and he can’t tell if he’s crying or about to pass out entirely, let the dark take him again so that he doesn’t have to feel this anymore. Nova doesn’t move and Clancy lunges, trying to shove himself forward, but just goes right through, falls to his knees on the other side of Nova with an oomph.

“No!” He cries, but his voice isn’t real— he’s lost to the wind, again. “No, Torch, please! I’m here, I—I’m here, I promise! Please, don’t—“ don’t leave me. Don’t give up on me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

Torchbearer stops in the doorway, just for a second, just long enough for Clancy’s heart to leap into his throat. He exhales, and it’s shaky and soft, and he walks off. The sound of Torch’s footsteps receding pounds in Clancy’s chest like a drum beat. He blinks tears away as he stares up at the doorway. 

Torch is gone. Gone. He walked away. He turned around. He left.

He gave up on you. 

He’s not sure if the thought comes from him, or Nico, or Nova, but it chokes him all the same. Bile creeps up his throat and his skin crawls.

He crawls forward, still on his knees, staring up at where his body was frozen. Even now, in this marionette state, Nova isn’t moving— he’s just staring, arms outstretched, still offering the robe to someone who wasn’t coming back.

He wasn’t coming back for him.

Nobody was coming back for him.

Nova stands there, looking between the other Banditos— no, Bishops, and fuck if the correction doesn’t make him want to cry all over again– and Clancy just stays knelt on the ground at Nova’s feet, shivering on the cold stone.

He failed.

No, not only that. He failed again. 

He’d have to start over, he realized numbly. It would all happen again. There’d be a new Nico, a new Clancy, and he’d turn into a faceless bishop in the crowd, “Nova Bishop”, and Torchbearer would do it all again like it was the first time, because he had to.

Replaceable.

A sob wrenches free from him, then, and Nova stiffens like he heard it. His hands are shaking where they hold the robe and nothing stops it this time as it slips to the ground.

Torchbearer is gone. It hasn’t fully sank in, yet, that it’s really happened– that he’s alone, with a group of new Bishops, standing outside a clone of himself that he can’t interact with. He must be dead. This must be hell.

“What if I fail?”

Torch’s voice echoes in his head: “Then I’ll try again. I always will.”

“What happens if I keep failing?”

“Then I keep trying until you succeed.” Torch had smiled. Soft, gentle, far too caring. “But you won’t. There’s something different about you this time, Clance. I can feel it.”

He scoffed. “How many times have you said that?”

“Never.” He reached out and took Clancy’s hand. “That’s how I know it’s real.”

Clancy laughs, though his sobs. “You’re wrong,” he whispers, like Torch would hear. “I’m no different. I’m just like him.”

He stands before he can think about it, still shaking. Gently reaches up a hand and rests it on– through, really, but he tries not to think about that– Nova’s face. His eyes close, briefly, but all he sees is him. Light shining in the dark, a line of torches all lit in a row. Torchbearer’s face, stricken and lost, eyes gleaming with the firelight. He imagines his reflection in them, flickering– shaved head, pink hair, dark eyes and bags that he can remember Torchbearer tracing with his thumb after a bad nightmare.

“You’re reckless”, he’d murmured, his skin warm where it touched his face. “You need to rest.”

He’d opened his mouth to protest, but Torch had continued: “If not for your sake, for mine.”

Damn him. The one thing Clancy couldn’t fight, in all his selfishness. “He comes back when I sleep,” Clancy had whispered, and Torch had huffed. 

“You really think I’ll let him get you? No.” He smiled, faintly, fleeting, and Clancy tried to memorize it while it lasted, before the memories darkened his vision. “Never again.”

He’d believed him, then, mostly because he’d had to, and Torch was a damn convincing bastard when he wanted to be. A few soft words and his heart rate had slowed back to normal and he’d fallen asleep against his chest, and in the fleeting moments before darkness came again, he’d vowed never to let anything ruin this. 

Fat load of good that did. 

He’d promised he wouldn’t be another gravestone, wouldn’t be another tally on the list of Clancys past, sworn not to give up, murmured it into Torch’s hair while he rested. He’s suddenly glad that he never said it when the other could hear– that there wasn’t another promise to break.

But he broke his promise to you. He LEFT you here. He promised he’d never do that.

He exhales softly and opens his eyes, stares directly at Nova standing there. At the smear, cleanly cut at his trembling bottom lip. At the hollow, blank way Nova is staring out the window, like he can still see Torchbearer leaving.

He steps back, blocking the window as best as he can, forcing Nova to look at– through– him.

“Hi,” he greets weakly. What is he doing? Fuck if he has any clue. “I’m no good at the comfort thing, but this–...” he sighs, softly. “This isn’t you,” he says gently, and he has to swallow back a laugh at how much he sounds like Torch. He’s never spoken this kindly to himself before– hell, probably to anyone but Torch, and it feels unnatural as the words fall off his tongue. “You’re better than this. Maybe you can be different.”

Can he? He’s not sure even as he says it. He’s never felt worse about anything in his life, especially not as the sea of red comes closer behind Nova.


He blinks again. His vision blurs, mercifully, Nova’s face blurring into a tan and black blob. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“Please, don’t make him do it again,” he whispers, voice breaking on the word. “Don’t make him do this again. You can’t make him lose anyone else. You can’t add to that.”

“So there were…other me-s?”

“Yeah. There were.”

“What happened to them?”

Torch’s gaze darkened. “They died.”

“Oh.” A beat. “And you’ve just…kept going?”

Torch nodded. “Yeah. I had to.” He turned, slightly. “I’m not giving up on you.”

“Even if I give up on myself?”

“Especially then.”

The words— the memories of them, echoing clear and soft in his head— cause something to loosen. Nova’s eyes close, and his finger twitches at his side, and Clancy breathes, deeply, for the first time since all this shit started. Fuck, was this working?

“Do it for him,” he chokes out. “He swore he’d show you around Trench when this was over. You still need to see the city walls. You can’t give up, now. Not when he’s so close.” He closes his eyes.

He’s sitting in Torch’s tent, digging for his notebook. He found one, flipped through a few pages, quickly realized it wasn’t his and tossed it to the side to find another. 

Torch walked in and saw the notebook. His eyes were wide, locked on it, and Clancy huffed faintly.

“Didn’t read anything,” he said dryly. “Don’t worry.”

Torch’s eyes searched his face, but he believed him. His shoulders slumped. “You didn’t,” he echoed quietly. He walked over, sat on the bar next to him, turned the notebook lightly in his hands.

“You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” he said quietly, flipping through the pages until Clancy reached out and stopped him. The page was covered in lines, scratches– some black, some red, some faded towards the top. It was crinkled and water-worn, smelled like salt, like it’d been sitting out by the shore. 

“What’s all this?” He asked, quietly, and Torch swallowed.

“It’s a tally,” he whispered. “Of how many times I’ve failed.”

“How many–” his voice broke as he stared down at the lines– god, there were so many. So, so many. “There were this many?” He sniffed, tracing his finger over the pages. “You kept track?”

Torch nodded, still avoiding his gaze. “Yeah.”

Clancy blinked. Swallowed hard. “Why?”

“It’s a memorial,” he said quietly, so low Clancy almost missed it. “And a punishment.”

Clancy leaned over, his hand resting on Torchbearer’s knee. “You don’t need to punish yourself for my failure.”

Torch didn’t look up from the page, but he squeezed Clancy’s hand. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I do. Because it means I failed you too.”

“This isn’t you,” he whispers again, his vision fading in and out at the edges. Nico’s words echo in his head, a pounding in his ears. “You are few. You are proud.” He huffs, faintly. “A bit too proud, maybe.”

Stolen whispers to Debby that Clancy was never supposed to hear. Torch shaking his head, whispering: “I don’t know what to say, Deb. I’m pretty sure he hates me now.”

She’d blinked down at him. “You’re giving up?.”

“No. I could never do that. I just don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.”

Clancy had turned away before he could start crying in full, went to their tent and buried his face in his hands. He’d been ignoring Torch since he’d gotten back from Vøldsoy, since the projections. He hadn’t said much— not more than ten words at a time. Talking about it made it real, that he’d suffered alone for six years, but god, he’d been a dick about it. He knew he’d been a dick about it and he hadn’t even felt bad until he’d heard Torch’s voice, shaking and wobbly and pleading.

That night, he’d sat down next to Torch at dinner for the first time in days. He’d tried to eat— really tried, not just taking a few bites. Torch had stared the whole time and hardly pretended not to.

Clancy looked down at his bowl and swallowed. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I did miss you.”

Torch had choked on his stew and coughed for a solid fifteen seconds. Clancy had lasted five before he broke into his first smile since coming back. 

“I missed you too,” Torch choked out, still coughing through mouthfuls of dinner. “A lot.” His eyes were bright, gleaming, and he opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Clancy huffed, faintly. “We’ll talk later,” he murmured. “Eat your dinner, Torchie. Y’look like shit.”

Torch hadn’t even complained about the public use of the nickname. He’d just smiled back at him– relieved and disbelieving– and it had felt like he’d seen the sun again.

A sob wrenches from his lips, and he laughs, wiping a tear from his cheek as he blinks at Nova. “You are emotional. God, you’re really emotional.”

He’d woken up from a nightmare. Torch reached out and he instinctively ducked, covered his head, scrambled until his back was against the wall of their tent.

“No!” He gasped. “No, I’m not doing it! You’ll have to kill me first!”

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, curled in the dark of their tent, shaking and pleading for mercy, until he realized that it was Torchbearer sitting in front of him, whispering soft nothings that he’d forgotten by now. He blinked once, twice, then gasped out an “oh, my god, it’s you.”

Torch had nodded, eyes softening, the relief flickering in them obvious. “Yeah, it’s me,” he’d whispered, and Clancy had broken down. Every other word out of his mouth was an apology, until Torch finally shushed him and just pulled him into his arms. 

“I turned into him,” he choked out, voice muffled by where he’d pressed himself into his neck. “I’m— I’m just like him.”

“No, you’re not,” Torch murmured. “I wouldn’t be here if you were. You wouldn’t be here if you were.”

He’d clung to the words— and to Torchbearer— as he fell asleep again. His dreams were softer after that, a mix of gold haze and smoke.

Clancy smiled, faintly, resting his hand over Nova’s shoulder. “You are Clancy.” 

No, that wasn’t enough. He’d never lived for himself before. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

Shared kisses by the firelight. Breaths mingling as one. Hands tangled in hair. Warmth like a flame, burning in his chest. The taste of stew and smoke and home.

“You are his Clancy.”

Nova’s eyes open. There are tears glimmering in them, shining brightly in the darkness.

Clancy smiles. “You’re covered. Always.”

Staring at the Paladin Strait. Glancing over at Torch.

“You’re really letting me do this alone?”

He nodded, jaw set. “It’s the best plan we’ve got,” he said quietly, turning to meet Clancy’s gaze. His words from earlier rang out: We’ve never made it this far before. His expression flickered with a sort of pleading desperation– he needed this to work as much as Clancy did.

And so Clancy smiled. “You’ll be covering me?”

Torch’s lips tilted up, just a little. “Always.”

Nova blinks. 

“Stay strong.”

Clancy played his ukulele for the first time in months. When he looked up, Torch was smiling at him, the hues of the fire painting his face gold, eyes soft and bright. 

He had meant to say “thanks for keeping my uke safe for me while I was gone”, or “I’m sorry”, or maybe even “that song was about you”, but instead, he’d blurted “I love you” and they both froze.

Torch had cleared his throat. Couldn’t look away. “…you do?”

“…yeah.” God, he was bright red. “Is that okay?”

“Is that—?” Torchbearer had laughed at him— fully laughed, in a way that shook his whole body— and beamed. “More than okay. Way more than okay.” He stood and walked over to him, wrapping Clancy in his arms and grinning into his neck. “I love you too.”

Nova is shaking, or maybe it’s Clancy. He can’t tell.

“Stay alive.”

Nova stares at him. He nods once.

Clancy closes his eyes and breathes.

|-/

When he opens his eyes again, everything snaps into focus.

He’s back in his body, which is a good start. His robe is stifling, choking him, the weight making his shoulders sag, but he can breathe. He’s not dead. That’s a good sign.

His hand flies up to his throat, fidgeting at the clasp for the robe, ripping it off in one fell swoop and throwing it to the side. He’s choking, gagging, and he turns to throw up only to see that he’s aimed straight for Nico’s body—

Oh, god, Nico’s body. 

Everything comes crashing back, and he gags, entire body heaving with the motion. He can’t bring himself to move, though, even as his hands are stained with the blood dripping from Nico’s head to where he’s planted his hands on the ground. The bile that comes out is dark and grimy, and he chokes as whatever he’d eaten however long ago before comes back up. Blood and bile drip down his lips, onto Nico’s robe, and he wraps his arms around himself, nails digging into his shoulders.

A scream rips its way out of his body, broken and choked. He’s still heaving— with sobs, or the desperate, vile need to get it out, he’s not sure, but he can’t stop. He’s screaming, crying, throwing up all over Nico’s fucking corpse, and it’s not until he hears the shuffling behind him that he remembers he’s not alone.

He turns, slowly, to face the Bishops. The faces of the former Banditos staring down at him, waiting. Like he’s still their leader. 

“No,” he gasps out, “no. Take those off. That’s not you.”

They just stare at him, tilting their heads in confusion, and fuck they’re not going anywhere. He’d damned them. Torchbearer had brought them up to help him, because he was too goddamn pathetic to fight Nico on his own, and he’d turned them into this. Mindless puppets. 

It was all his fault.

They’d all be better off without him.

Tears flood his eyes all over again, and he looks out the window, pretends he can see Torch walking away. The other Banditos would probably come back for the bodies, eventually. What would they do if they found Clancy’s among them? Would it even matter? They’d left, after all. 

He could do it, he realizes. There wasn’t anyone who’d stop him— he was in charge of the other Bishops, while he was still in this goddamn tower. Torchbearer wouldn’t ever find out.

He imagines it. 

Throwing himself out the tower, headfirst. The bliss of flying through the air, wind on his face, the adrenaline filled laugh bubbling up in the seconds before he hits the ground. Landing hard on the gravel and letting the blood seep from his head until there wasn’t any left.

They’d find his body. The Banditos could come back for the list of the dead, and if they did, they’d see him with his head split open on the pavement. Torchbearer would see him, dead, again, and Clancy didn’t know if he could take that guilt, even if he wasn’t alive for it.

He could sit in the tower and wait for the hunger to get him. Knock himself out and decompose, skin fall away, eyes close. Do the Bishops a favor and let his bones become the new ominous decoration for the tower.

The rot in his stomach when Dema refused to feed him. The hallucinations of Torchbearer standing there, telling him to keep going. 

Getting back to camp and being used to not eating. Throwing up when he tried. Torch giving up his food so the other Banditos would have more. Clancy sneaking him his rations until Torch found out and begged him to stop. 

“You need to eat, Clance,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t give more food up for my sake.”

He huffed. “You are such a hypocrite.”

Torch couldn’t argue. “We’ll split it, then.” He was begging. Pleading. It hurt more than the pang of the cramps. “Just don’t give all of it up. Not for me.”

He could hang himself with the robe. There’s a fixture on the ceiling, and enough of the cloth to go around. He could wrap it around his neck, kick off, hope he breaks in half, feel the rattling in his chest as his breaths slow to a stop.

“You never let me tie anything,” he complained. He was sprawled out on a rock, one hand draped over his eyes to shield from the sun.

“There’s a reason for that,” Torch said flatly, tying the final loop around the trap for the rabbits and stepping back.

A beat, where he debated asking and Torch debated answering. Torch caved first (he usually did).

“You hung yourself. Few cycles ago.” He swallowed. “Haven’t let you tie anything since.”

He’d gone quiet, after that, and watched Torch gather the rest of the rope with shaking hands. 

He’d walked over, put his hand on Torch’s shoulder. “Suffocation’s not really my style,” he’d joked quietly, and Torch had huffed out a faint laugh. Both of them had ignored how choked it sounded when it happened. Clancy had tucked himself a little closer that night, anyway, and Torch had held on a little tighter. 

Tears slip down his face, dripping down his chin. His nails dig further into his shoulders as he shakes. 

Do it, Nico laughs. He’ll be better off without you. 

He hears Torchbearer’s voice louder, echoing in his head.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.”

“No,” he mumbles. Slowly, shakily, he pulls himself to his feet. The antlers lay on the ground a few feet away. He picks them up with a shaky hand and turns. The Bishops follow his every move with cold eyes— demanding, cold. 

He reaches out to one, fumbling with his robe with one hand, but his hands are shaking too hard to get it. The Bandito takes his hands and brings them away. 

“I chose this,” he says. His voice sounds like Nico’s, ringing in his ears, pounding in his chest. “You could choose this too.”

He wants to cry, wants to throw up, wants to whack him over the head with the antlers until he comes back to himself, wants to scream until his throat goes raw. He settles for grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him, once, twice, the other hand clutching the antlers so hard it leaves imprints on his skin.

“Please!” he chokes out, and the Bandito just smiles.  “This doesn’t have to be you. You have a name. Tell me your name—!”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says gently. “You need to let go.”

Maybe he does. He doesn’t want to, though. He remembers the look on Torch’s face as he watched his friends give up. He thinks about the look on Torch’s face as he realized he was losing Clancy again.

“You could lead us,” the Bishop starts again, and the noise that leaves Clancy is hardly human. 

“No,” he growls. “You need to pick a new leader.” His voice is firm, raspy. It hurts, and he clears his throat. “I’m not going to lead you.” He turns away from them. “I’m done. It’s over.” One step away from the window, one towards the door. Torch’s voice echoes: Push on through.

One calls out as he’s in the doorway. “Where are you going?”

He pauses, turning just enough to face them. His lips tilt up, slightly, and he huffs faintly as he turns away. 

“I’m going home.”

|-/

The walk back to the camp is long and lonely.

It’s odd to walk it by himself. Some small part of him thinks that maybe he should be more present, that maybe he should take it in. Before, he’d been too preoccupied with Torchbearer to think much about where they were going. He hadn’t had a chance to just breathe it in– not really. He’d just walked, hands clenched, eyes straight ahead, paying no attention to what wasn’t illuminated by the soft flames of the Banditos, until Torchbearer walked up beside him, close enough so their arms brushed.

It was cold, now. Torch’s absence rings in his ears as the thoughts pound, stinging like the cold wind that licked at his face. He shudders, rubbing at his arms, but only succeeds in making more of a mess of himself, smear and blood– not his, he reminds himself, but the sight still makes him want to throw up a little– smeared all over his hands, his face, his clothes. He hadn’t taken time to clean up before he left, not that there would’ve been any good place to. The entirety of Dema was littered with rubble and bodies— he hadn’t dared try to search for any he’d recognize. He wasn’t sure if he could. What would he even do if he’d found one?

Each step leaves blood and grime on the ground behind him in a path as he drags himself forward. He really should’ve been more careful, he thinks numbly. What if someone follows?

It doesn’t feel like that matters, now. The wind is a breath on the back of his neck, the chirping of the birds a cacophony of laughter. He’s being watched, judged— he doesn’t deserve to be set free.

He tries to shake it off to no avail. His head is spinning and his throat aches, and he’s shaking so hard– from the cold, or fear, what, he’s not sure– that he can hardly take each step forward. But he does, until he manages to hear it– talking. He almost collapses then and there, teeth gritting to instinctively muffle the sound that leaves. His lips move, but nothing comes out, and he wants to run but can’t. He just keeps slowly stepping forward, until he sees it– the bonfire, lapping at the sky. A shadowed figure sitting next to it, others crowded behind. 

He steps forward, one boot snapping a tree branch. He flinches as the figure’s head snaps up.

“Who’s there?”

Clancy swallows. What, you don’t recognize me now? I’m wounded.  The quip is on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to force it out. His throat is dry, his lips are chapped, and fuck he can’t breathe as he sees Torchbearer standing there, barely illuminated by the yellow glow of the flames. There’s blood on his jacket– whose, he’s not sure. Some selfish part of him prays it’s someone else’s– and his pants are torn at the knees but he’s alive, and he’s upright.

And he’s coming closer. Fuck, he’s coming closer, and Clancy nearly drops to his knees right there in the dirt. 

“I said, who’s–”

He takes a step forward. One, two, another, until he’s in the light of the fire, and every eye is suddenly on him. He swallows, runs a hand along the back of his head, eyes down on the dirt. 

“Holy shit.” It’s soft, whispered by one of the other Banditos who he never learned the name of, and it almost draws a laugh from him before he coughs on it. He hears shuffling, more footsteps, and he stiffens, shoulders drawn up to his ears.  

Nobody speaks a word. The forest hushes around them, the wind rustling the leaves in a quiet hush. 

Nico’s voice echoes once in the silence: he’ll never forgive you.

Nico is dead, he tries to remind himself, you killed him, but that doesn’t matter. He can’t stop looking at Torch, standing there, wide eyed with what? Horror? Fear? Plain old shock?

“…hi.” 

The second the word leaves his mouth, he cringes, because wow, that wasn’t the right thing to say and he knows it, but he can’t exactly take it back. He tries to take another step forward, and Torchbearer recoils, stumbling back so fast he nearly knocks straight into another Bandito. 

Clancy freezes, foot still halfway up in an aborted step forward. The antlers slip from his hand, landing in the dirt with a dull thud that hardly registers as he steps back.

He flinched, he realizes numbly. From YOU. 

Torch seems to realize what just happened too, because he’s gone so still Clancy isn’t even sure he’s breathing. “No,” he mutters, a bitter scoff of a laugh leaving him. For a second he just stands there, staring, before he turns and runs a hand over his face. “I-..I’ve lost it. You’re not here.”

Clancy huffs, dryly. It does nothing to mask the roughness to his voice when he speaks. “I can’t really be in two places at once, Torch. Not as cool as you are.” He smiles weakly, but it fades just as fast when Torch doesn’t even spare him a glance. 

Tthe pit of dread in his stomach grows heavier. His knees wobble as he takes another small step forward. The other Banditos crowd closer on instinct and Clancy winces at how goddamn defensive they look. But nobody’s moved to attack him yet. That has to be a good sign, right?

Someone steps forward. “Where are the others?”

His stomach drops. Torch stiffens. “I’m-..” his voice cracks, it’s pathetic. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and he hates himself for it. Say something else. Literally anything else. He can’t. He shakes his head instead. “I tried. They wouldn’t come.”

“What do you mean, you tried?!” he cries, and Clancy flinches. “You should’ve tried harder! You should’ve—“

“That’s enough.” Another Bandito– Jenna, thank god– steps forward, spares him the humiliation. “He’ll explain himself. Just give him a chance to.” Her voice is too gentle for what he deserves. He wants her to hit him. He doesn’t ask her to. “We were told you were a Bishop. What happened?”

He winces, just a little, eyes dropping down to the dirt. It’s a fair question and he knows it– it’d be cruel of him not to give any answer. He takes in a soft, deep breath, and he sighs.

“I fought Nico. Like we planned. But halfway through the f..fight, my hands, they…” he huffs. “My hands had started turning black. And my face.”

He gestures weakly to himself. Like they wouldn’t have seen by now, you freak. 

His mouth opens— what came next? It all feels like a blur— then shuts. The symbol. He can’t say anything about that. Given how secretive Torch had been, he wasn’t sure if he was even supposed to know.

Jenna nods for him to continue, taking his silence as hesitation rather than a lie. He doesn’t look at her. Can’t. “I blacked out after that, though.” Mostly true. “And when I opened my eyes I was outside my body. I could see myself fully, and I was wearing the robe.”

It sounds absurd. Sounds insane. But one fleeting look at Torch’s face– eyes wide, disbelieving, locked on every word– and he keeps going.

“It was like I was watching myself,” he whispers. “It was me, but it wasn’t me. Like a clone. I— I was screaming and trying to stop it, but I just kept going through my body. Like I was dead, and someone was puppeting my corpse.” Torch winces. He keeps going. “I was giving out robes to everyone and there– there was nothing I could do to stop it. I tried, I really did. And then Torch left, and it wasn’t until I was alone that I was able to break out of it.”

Torch clears his throat. “Break out of it?” he echoes, quietly, flatly, and Clancy’s stomach twists. “So you’re not under control anymore?”

“No!” It comes out quick, and desperate, even to him. “I’m not under their control. I– I wouldn’t be here if I was.” I almost wasn’t anyway. He doesn’t say that much aloud, just exhales, running a hand over the back of his head. “It…sounds nuts. I know it does. But it’s-...I’m me. Even if I don’t quite look like me yet.” He rubs the back of his wrist to his chin, and a bit of the smear rubs off on his sleeve. “See? Still me.” 

“It’s coming off,” Torch remarks quietly. There’s a beat where nobody speaks, nobody moves, nobody breathes. A few Banditos shuffle restlessly in the quiet. One steps forward– he doesn’t remember their name, but he knows they’re younger, and they can draw pretty good– and walks right over, staring up at him. 

Their voice comes shaky and soft, a smidge broken. “It’s really over?” 

He huffs, faintly, the lump in his throat swelling. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s over.”

The kid breaks into a smile, like they can finally breathe, and a cheer rises up from the rest of the Banditos. He can hear choruses of “we won!” and “it’s over!” and “thank Trench!” and he laughs, softly, but he can’t look away from Torchbearer. Torchbearer, whose eyes are soft, crinkled around the edge, whose lips are tilted up in the smallest of smiles as he watches the Banditos. It fades when he looks over at Clancy, but he can’t pretend he wasn’t staring, still smiling too.

Torch walks over. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

His voice is a little softer, but still too detached, and Clancy’s chest aches as he turns away, quick and abrupt, like he can’t bear to look at him. Clancy nods, but Torch is already turned around, heading towards the water. He doesn’t check to see if Clancy’s following; he is. 

Torch stops at the edge of the lake, shoulders tense. He’s standing there, stock still, hardly breathing, and Clancy swallows, wrapping his arms around himself as the cool wind washes over him.

“Say something,” he whispers. He’s desperate, but he doesn’t care. “Please.”

Torch doesn’t turn around. “What do you want me to say?” he says blankly, and Clancy flinches like he’d been struck. Torch keeps talking with that careful, flat tone. “You tell me that you beat Nico, were fully brainwashed, watched us leave you, and–” he laughs. It’s rough and bitter. “And you came back? How the hell am I supposed to react to that?”

“I don’t know!” He cries, throwing his hands up. “I don’t fucking know, Torch! But do something. Berate me, scream, hell, you could punch me for all I care right now! Just stop being so–” closed off. Talk to me, please. He breaks off with a frustrated grunt, hands balling into fists at his side. He’d never use them and Torch knows it, because his eyes soften when he sees them.

“Clance,” he breathes, voice wavering ever so slightly. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say more, then shuts it with a click. He looks so disbelieving it breaks Clancy’s heart— his shoulders are tense and shaking, and his breaths are coming too quick for him to hide it.

“The cycle is broken, Torch,” he chokes out. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud— he wants to scream it all over again from the clifftops, broken, broken, BROKEN!!!— and his breath catches dangerously on the end of the word. That’s nothing compared to the sob of an exhale that leaves Torch, shaky and choked, quickly covered as he raises a hand to his mouth and turns away. 

He steps forward. “It’s over, Torch. I’m here, I’m me again, and Nico is dead.”

Torch doesn’t move. He’s shut down entirely and Clancy’s heart is in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to do. “Please don’t shut me out,” he pleads. “I know that this is definitely harder for you than it is for me. But please. Please don’t give up on me now. I swear I’m still me.” He’s begging. He doesn’t care. “I promise you. Please.”

Torch doesn’t answer. A strangled noise leaves him– fuck, is he crying? He’s shaking hard enough that Clancy can’t help but worry that he might fall over, but no sound is leaving. He takes a step forward right as Torch’s knees give, and he’s just barely in time to catch him and help lower him to the ground, hands on the other man’s elbows. He still won’t look up, Clancy notices— his face is buried firmly in his hands.

“Torch,” he says, not bothering to mask the panic he can feel slipping into his voice, because this isn’t like him. Torch didn’t fall apart like this. Ever. “Torch, you’ve gotta look at me. You’ve gotta breathe—“

“Clancy,” Torch rasps, the shuddering noise rattling the air between them, “shut. up.”

He blinks, his grip on Torch’s arms loosening a little. He doesn’t want to talk to you. He hates you now. He’ll never forgive you. “What?”

“Y—“ he breaks off, clears his throat, coughs out a sound that sounds like it hurts leaving, like it was ripped out of him. His fingers part just enough for Clancy to see his face, and those are definitely tears shining in his eyes. “You have no idea what this means to me, do you?”

Clancy scoffs. “What?” he whispers again, and it’s all he can do to not fold in half then and there. “What it means to you? I thought you’d be furious.”

“Furious?” He laughs, chokes on it, shakes his head to clear it. “I’m feeling a lot of things. Anger isn’t one of them.”

The relief that washes over him nearly takes him down completely. “What…are you feeling, then?” He sounds small, too scared, like a little kid, but he doesn’t care. 

“I don’t know, Clance.” He huffs. “I thought–” his voice cracks, and he sighs. “I thought it was starting again,” he finally chokes out. “I thought you were gone. I thought you’d given up.”

I almost did. He can’t say that. It makes him want to throw up, and the look on Torchbearer’s face is destroying him enough already. He can’t imagine it— looking him in the eye and saying, I almost threw myself out the tower. I almost hung myself with the robe. I almost gave up entirely. I almost left you, even after I broke the cycle. Please don’t hate me for it. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” He reaches up– carefully, slowly, like he’s a spooked animal rather than the man he loves so deeply– and takes his wrist, gently pulling it away from his face. Tears track down Torchbearer’s cheeks, and he carefully wipes them away. Another exhale leaves his lips— soft, shuddery, and Torch leans into his hand, mouth half pressed against Clancy’s darkened palm.

“No,” Torch murmurs, “you didn’t.” His eyelids flutter, half-closed, glancing up through clusters of lashes to meet Clancy’s gaze. His lips tilt up in the smallest of smiles. “I’m so glad you didn’t.”

He exhales faintly through his nose. “You mean that? Cause if you mean that, you’re never getting rid of me.” 

Torch’s smile grows a little. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I mean it. Goddess, Clancy, I mean it more than anything.” 

Maybe it’s the way he says it, like the fact that Clancy had deigned to show up again was all that mattered, maybe it’s the words themselves, the truth of them ringing tightly in his chest, or maybe it’s the softness of Torch’s voice, gentle and quiet as he says it. Whatever it is, it hits him straight in the chest, and he throws himself into Torch so hard it knocks them flat onto the sand.

Torch is sent sprawling– very unceremoniously. Clancy’s sure he’d be embarrassed if there were people around– landing flat on his back with an oomph, but he’s still grinning, laughing softly as Clancy rolls so they’re more on their sides. He wraps his arms around him, tangles their legs, presses as close as he can get without crawling inside and burrowing into Torch’s heart.

He feels arms snake around him, warm and real and Torch, and then Clancy is falling apart in their hold. Tears flood his eyes as he pulls himself ever closer, hands clutching at the back of Torch’s jacket. Torch brings a hand to the back of his head and he whimpers, a noise he’d deny making if anyone called him on it. He buries his face into Torch’s neck and breathes, the scent of smoke and blood and pine needles filling his nose. The exhale comes out as a sob, buried in his skin, and the rest spill out after. Torch is shaking against him, coughing out broken noises that he eventually realizes are his name— “Clancy. Clancy. Clance.”— and it just makes him cry harder. 

They stay like that for a long time— laying in the sand, shaking in tandem. It’s not until he pulls his head up to breathe properly that he freezes. Torch’s neck is stained, painted a dark charcoal. 

You’re ruining him. You’re ruining him, just like everything else.

He’s off him quick, pushing off and sitting a few feet away, staring at his hands. The smear’s faded, a little– he can only imagine how much of it stained Torch’s clothes, and the bile from earlier creeps up his throat all over again. Torch sits up, that small smile still faint on his lips, fading by the moment as the look of horror on Clancy’s face registers.

“Clance?” He swallows, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Did— did I do something?”

Clancy shakes his head, wordlessly, weakly pointing at his neck. Torch raises a hand to it, like he’s checking his pulse, but doesn’t so much as blink when his fingers come away gray.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Clance, you don’t need to feel bad about that.”

His stomach twists. He’s too good to you. “But–”

“A little bit of a stain is worth getting to hold you again,” he interrupts, and warmth rushes to Clancy’s chest (and face, but he ignores that). “Besides, it’s good that it’s coming off.” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that– not really– so he just sits there and stares as Torch pulls himself up and extends a hand. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.”

He swallows, staring at his hand longer than he should. “I don’t–”

“Clancy.” His voice brokers no room for argument. 

Despite himself, he smiles, faintly, rolling his eyes. “Stubborn idiot.” He takes his hand anyway and lets himself be led to the water.

“Gonna be cold,” Torch warns, but he’s already half-submerged.

“When is it not cold?” He shoots back, gritting his teeth as the icy needles prick his skin. 

“Never,” Torch deadpans, wading in beside him like it’s nothing, gently taking Clancy’s hands from where they were floating at his sides. 

His expression shifts from soft to horrified, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of just how much blood he’s covered in.

”You’re bleeding,” Torch chokes out. “Are you hurt? Why didn’t you—“

“I’m fine,” he cuts in. “It’s Nico’s blood.”

“Oh.” Torch’s thumb trails over the skin, gently scrubbing it away, and Clancy watches as the water turns from blue to gray, to red, his skin fading back to the pale hue he was used to. 

“Look,” he murmurs, lifting Clancy’s knuckles— bruised and bloody, but him— to his lips. “Still you under there.”

He exhales, slow and soft, lips tilted up. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Torch tugs his bandana off and raises it to Clancy’s face. Hovering. Not touching. “You wanna do this part, or should I?”

He swallows roughly. It’s selfish– they were only apart for a few hours– but he craves the contact more than anything. He swallows back the noise building in his throat.

You’re ruining him.

I don’t care anymore.

“You,” he finally manages. A beat. “Please.”

He nods, gently, expression flickering with something soft and gentle and undeniably fond, and it makes Clancy’s heart pang painfully in his chest. “Of course,” he whispers, dipping the bandana in the water and raising it to his chin. The smear fades away within minutes. 

Clancy blinks down at his reflection through the murky water. Shaved hair, dark eyes, bags shadowing them. But he’s him again. He’d thought he’d be out of tears to cry, by now, but a few strays track down his cheeks as Torch runs his thumb over his lip.

“It’s you,” Torch whispers, and Clancy realizes through his own haze of tears that he’s crying too. “You’re really here. You really did it.” 

He swallows back the lump building in his throat. “We did it,” he corrects gently. “You did this just as much as me.”

Torch blinks at him, the tears brimming in his eyes. “Clance–”

“No,” he whispers, reaching up to take Torch’s hand, pull it from his face and press it to his heart. “This is as much your victory as mine. I didn’t fail because of you.” 

Torch scoffs. “I wasn’t even there.”

“Yet I heard your voice.” The admission slips without thinking, but he doesn’t quite mind when he hears Torch’s breath stutter against him.

“Seriously?” It’s quiet, gasped out in the space between them.

He nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You were the only reason I—“ didn’t give up, didn’t kill myself, didn’t quit “—was able to break out of it. I thought of you.”

Torch makes a noise— strangled and choked, like a laugh that got stuck— and pulls Clancy back to him, hands cupping his cheeks. He presses their foreheads together.

“I love you,” Torch whispers. It comes out raw and reverent and softer than he deserves. “So much, Clance.”

Clancy couldn’t care less that they were in the middle of freezing water. He didn’t care that he was still crying. He leans closer, closer, until their breaths are just one. He’s sure Torch’s heart beats with his, skips the same beat as he presses their lips together. It’s soft and salty and sweet, and Torch’s lips twitch against his.

He grins when he pulls back. “I love you too, by the way.”

Torch beams, fucking beams, and the sun comes out in the dead of night.

|-/

It’s Torch who wakes up in the middle of the night, this time.

The bed shifts beside him, a choked gasp echoing in the still night air. He blinks the rest of the sleep– a dream he doesn’t remember, thank goodness– out of his eyes and sits up slow. “Torch?”

Torch turns and looks at him, eyes wide and pleading, lips parted in an aborted breath that turns into a sigh when he sees Clancy sitting there.

“I-..sorry.” He laughs, weakly, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He hums. “Didn’t figure you did.” He shrugs, rolling his neck with a pop. “It’s all good. ‘m a light sleeper.”

Torch doesn’t respond. Just sits there, staring, shoulders shaking, wet eyes shining in the dim moonlight that filters in. Clancy’s heart aches, and he exhales.

“…’c’mere,” he says quietly. He flops back down onto the bed, tugging Torch down with him, pulling the other’s head to rest on his chest. It’s not the most comfortable position, what with Torch laying half on top of him, but he doesn’t care. The weight is comforting, even as Torch shifts a little to get comfortable. He can feel a wet spot growing on his chest, but doesn’t bring it up. 

Torch huffs, wetly. “Your heartbeat’s real quick for someone who just woke up.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he mumbles, burying his face in Torch’s hair to hide the warmth rushing to his cheeks. He can’t help but sneak a kiss to the top of his head, relishing in the way Torch’s shoulders sag. He brings a hand to his spine, gently tracing up and down. “I’m trying to be comforting.”

“You’re doing great,” Torch murmurs, exhaling softly against his chest. “…’m glad you’re here.”

Clancy’s breath hitches. There’s more to talk about. The symbol. The giving up. The sitting on the floor on his knees and letting death take him. 

But Torch’s breathing evens out, and he can’t bear to think of it. Instead, he smiles faintly, letting his arms shake around him. Later, he thinks, as Torch’s soft snores fill the tent. It can wait until later.

“Yeah,” he whispers, pressing another gentle kiss to the top of Torch’s head. 

“Me too.”